


Man, This Was Your Idea (A Somewhat Gothick Romance)

by cornichaun (cerebel)



Series: Public Defender 'Verse [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Trespassing), Creepy Insane Asylums, Discussion of Fraud, Discussion of Unspecified Sex Crime, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mention of Mental Retardation, Our Heroes Do Crime, Reckless Idiot Steve Rogers, Romance, The garbage American legal system, Thunderstorms, Why is Sam going along with this?, he's in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cornichaun
Summary: Sam, Sentencing Advocate, helps out Steve, the newest Public Defender, with a docket. Steve gets it into his head that he has to visit the crime scene. Of a trespassing case. Of a creepy abandoned asylum.Sam knows it's a stupid idea, which is why it's mystifying that he's going along.Part of the Public Defender 'verse; this is sort of an offshoot. Standalone, not connected by plot to any of the others, and definitely doesn't need to be read in order. TAKE NOTE: This does contain some sensitive content, as Sam and Steve work together on cases where the defendants are definitely guilty. Heed tags and warnings.





	Man, This Was Your Idea (A Somewhat Gothick Romance)

"Aw, _hell_ no.” 

So, here is what prompted this: 

Steve Rogers, a.k.a. ‘The New Guy’, hired a couple months ago, is working his way through the list of clients for the city of Stand, general district court, third Friday of the month. 

Sam Wilson is here to assist. 

And then Tony _Stark_ had to drop by. 

“Next is this guy.” Sam had passed over the warrant. 

“Trespassing,” Steve had murmured. “It doesn’t say where.” 

And here is where Tony had slipped into the conference room, looked over Steve’s shoulder. “Ooh, it’s in the city,” he’d said. “Bet it’s the DeKoska Center.” 

So, this is the moment: 

Steve glances up, now, and there’s a spark in his eye. “The DeKoska Center,” he echoes. 

“Aw, _hell_ no,” says Sam. He says it to that spark, that catch of _interest_. 

\-- 

Know that phrase, ‘it’s a slippery slope’? 

Means you take one step, then another, then, at some point, there’s a _slip_. You skid. You fall. It’s too late to go slow. 

\--

Sam’s heart constricts. 

“That’s the abandoned asylum, isn’t it?” 

“No, no, no, no, no—” Sam is halfway to his feet, holding out a hand, but it’s _way_ too late. 

“I think we should take a look at the crime scene,” Steve points out, in a very reasonable tone. 

 

“Shit,” says Sam. 

\--

Earlier, before this: 

Sam works with Steve on a few early felony probation violations, the kind of thing that Phil usually uses to acclimate people to the ins and outs of circuit court. 

“It’s pretty straightforward,” says Sam. “These guys are on probation, they mess up, we make excuses.” He leans back, fingers laced behind his head. Sam’s office is the smallest of anyone’s; it’s sort of a weird slice of space, subdivided after this building was renovated for the fourth or fifth time. He kinda likes it; he’s in the middle of the lawyers, and he can low-key keep an ear on how things are going while he does his job. 

“We never put on a real defense?” asks Steve.

“I mean.” Sam sighs. “There’s not usually one to put on. Can’t argue that a guy didn’t violate probation, when his condition is ‘keep the peace, be of good behavior’ and he has like six new larceny convictions, you know?” 

Steve has a weird look on his face. Sam can’t get a read on it. 

“Let’s go through ‘em,” he says. “You got four for next week, right? Who’s bachelor number one?” 

Steve passes over the file. 

Sam flips to the Major Violation Report. “See, this is pretty normal,” he says. “This guy got convicted of unauthorized use—”

“Joyriding, right?” asks Steve. 

“Yep. Got two years, all suspended – means he didn’t have to serve any time in jail, but he’s got two years hanging over his head for this violation. Next charge… imitation of a police officer or firefighter? Thought that was a misdemeanor.” 

“It is,” says Steve, dryly. “The _first_ two times.” 

“Jeez…Condition six,” Sam reads, out loud, “I will not drive or operate any police vehicles or equipment – wait, what?” 

“Read the letter.” 

Sam does, and after a few paragraphs he has to press his lips together, real hard. 

“So, this asshole,” Sam says, slowly, “buys a sedan, paints it white, installs a… a _full bar_ of amber lights on the roof?” 

“He works in construction.” Steve’s voice is completely bland, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“Then a custom CB radio. Two custom radios,” Sam corrects himself, skimming the letter. 

“Construction workers,” shrugs Steve, airily. “They like to talk.” 

Then: “Oh my god.” 

“Yeah,” says Steve. “I know.” 

“Full set of police uniforms in the trunk,” reads Sam. He leans back, a hand over his eyes. What the hell, what the _hell_. 

“Antiques?” says Steve. “He’s a collector.” 

“Yeah, sure,” says Sam, “Judge Carter’s gonna love _that_ one.” 

\--

Spoiler alert: Judge Carter does not love that one. 

She does seem to appreciate the effort, though.

And the way Steve’s ass looks in those slacks. 

Sam accidentally meets her eyes, once, when he catches her watching, and he’s pretty sure his expression and her expression are pretty fair mirror images of each other. 

_Not_ infatuated, really. More like – impressed. Intrigued? Ugh. 

Sam gives Judge Carter a little shrug, like, hey, can you blame me? – Cause _I_ can’t blame me. 

She has to look down to hide the little smile. 

“I will revoke all two years,” she says, “and resuspend all but… fifteen months.” The pause is due to something passing on her laptop screen, where she’s typing this into the ancient dinosaur of a case information system. “That’s nine months to serve.” She looks down at the guy henceforth to be known as Police Car Guy. “The men and women who protect our streets are in a position of trust, Mr. McKinley. I will not see that trust abused; I will not see anyone take advantage of it. Your absurd excuses won’t get you anywhere with me.” She clicks, types a few words. “I will authorize work release, should the jail qualify you for it. Under no circumstances, however, shall I allow you to engage in the jail’s program of home electronic monitoring. Without confinement, I don’t believe you will learn this lesson.” 

Steve obviously disagrees. There’s a spark in his eyes, and practically a palpable sizzle when his and Judge Carter’s eyes meet. 

\--

Sam’s not jealous. 

\--

Their second case, it’s depressing. Not the kind of depressing that really kicks you in the gut, just…

Sam stares at the Major Violation Report. This guy, on probation for 2 felony DUIs, in 2015 and 2016, has already managed to land himself another DUI conviction. That means _five_. This guy has gotten _five DUIs_ in the last seven years. 

“So, let’s get it straight,” says Steve. 

_God, I hope not,_ thinks Sam, for a brief and panicked moment, his mind on something very much not DUIs and probation. He refocuses. 

“This guy gets his first DUI. October, 2012.” Steve marks it on the whiteboard he’s braced against the wall of his office. “Second in five years, December of 2014. Then, June 2015, his first felony DUI.” 

Sam sighs. 

“Two years, one year four months suspended.” Steve marks a ‘16’. Sam puzzles over this, until he remembers that there are 12 months in a year, and 12 plus 4 is 16. “He makes it until the next January, 2016. Second felony DUI. Four years, with 3 years 2 months suspended…” 

The next number he writes is ‘38’. Sam checks the math in his head. Looks right. 

“Adjudication is in May, he makes it out in January of the following year.” 

That’s not ten months, thinks Sam. But, then, Virginia has this just _super_ thing called, what is it, ‘truth in sentencing’? There’s no parole, you’re not getting out _early_ , but you do serve your time at a 15% discount, for some fucking reason. So a ten-month sentence is actually more like eight and a half. 8 months, 21 days. 

“And it takes him all of 46 days to get caught again.” 

There it is, the sad story of this guy’s life, reduced to a no-context series of crimes. Dates. Months of imprisonment he is yet to receive. 

“He’s still on probation for both of the old felony DUIs,” says Sam. 

“So he could get sentenced up to…” 

“Four and a half years.” Sam rubs his face. 

“And he already got two years for the latest.” Steve is frustrated; he is blocked. Sam doesn’t blame him. It’s hard to feel like there’s anything like justice in this. Put the guy in prison? Just feels hollow; the man’s already destroying himself. He hasn’t hurt anyone, but he’s put a hell of a lot of people in danger. So what is this, tossing him behind bars for what _might_ have happened? 

\--

Turns out, yeah. 

“On the 2015 charge, I revoke all suspended time -- one year and four months. On the 2016 charge, I revoke…” Judge Carter calculates. 

Too much math, this case, thinks Sam. 

Then he’s appalled at himself, because there’s a man’s life being decided, right here, someone being put _away_ , and Sam’s thinking about arithmetic. 

“I revoke all the suspended time, and _resuspend_ six months.” She fixes her gaze on the defendant. “Would you like to make any remarks to the court?” 

“This isn’t fair,” is what the defendant says. 

Sam sighs. He’s been doing a lot of sighing, lately. 

“Well,” says Peggy, “you do have the right to appeal my decision to the Court of Appeals, for jurisdictional grounds, and for abuse of discretion, if you can convince them to listen. Let the record reflect that the defendant and his attorney have been present at all stages of this proceeding, and that he has been ably and capably represented by Steven Rogers.” 

\--

The third case, _that_ one is kick-in-the-gut depressing. 

It’s also when Sam realizes why he’s falling in love. 

\--

The evidence has been presented. The sentencing memorandum, introduced into the record. There’s a sort of hush over the courtroom. The defendant looks down, at his chained hands, threaded through a metal hoop at his waist. He is overweight, middle-aged, thinning hair, but there is something in his expression that’s vacant. 

“Your view, Mr. Rogers?” Peggy’s crisp voice falls on Steve. 

Steve moves to his feet, deliberately. He steps out from behind the heavy wooden desk, into the space between witness stand, jury, judge, audience. 

Sam, seated against the wall about ten feet behind the defense table, leans forward. 

“Your Honor,” says Steve. He lifts his eyes to her. Pauses, until her gaze is meeting his. “No one disagrees about the facts here. My client committed a crime. He served a prison sentence. He had to keep up with the registry. And he didn’t.” 

These facts have already come out, but something about Steve’s voice, the overtones or undertones or whatever, gives it a different tenor. 

“Sam Wilson, our sentencing advocate,” says Steve, and Sam feels a little frisson at the sound of his name, “has been working like crazy, just trying to get people to come in and advocate for this guy. Trying to find someone willing to take him in. But, you know what? He’s one of _our_ clients. His family isn’t rich. And they can’t take care of someone like him.” A breath: “And I can’t blame them.” 

Steve grits his teeth. “We have failed him,” he says. “We had a duty, and a responsibility, not only to keep the public safe but to take care of someone who can’t take care of himself. And we dropped the ball, Your Honor. We’ve _failed_. Because we can’t find any inpatient psychiatric ward willing to take him, unless and until he completes _state mandated_ sex offender treatment. And there’s no sex offender treatment program that will take him because he’s _just not smart enough._ ” 

He shrugs, open-handed. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Your Honor. The Roanoke Rescue Mission was his last chance. And when they said ‘cigarettes are against the rules,’ someone with an IQ above sixty might have tossed the cigarettes and stayed. But my client heard that he broke the rules, so he left. And now he can’t go back. 

“Catch-22. He can’t get into a facility because he hasn’t finished treatment. He can’t go to treatment unless he can get restored to competence in a facility. And _here we are_ , judge. You’re going to send him to prison, because there’s nowhere else to go.” 

Boy, Sam is glad he’s not on the receiving end of Steve’s stare right now. Though Judge Carter seems to be holding up just fine, damn her. 

(He’s just jealous, really. Judge Carter is the best judge around.) 

“So, go ahead,” says Steve. “Toss him in. Just write in your order that if we can find a solution, a place, a treatment program, that you’ll _consider_ it. Kick him down, lock him up, but, for the love of—” Steve stops. “For compassion,” he says, “for mercy, and for the love of justice, don’t throw away the key.” 

_For the love of justice_ , honest to God, how can that man make that phrase sound real? Genuine? Honest? Sam is boggled. 

Judge Carter looks down, for a long moment. 

“I don’t have a choice,” she says, finally. “The Commonwealth’s Attorney is correct – Mr. Dagon poses a threat to the community, on an ongoing basis. More than that, he is a threat to himself – he is not competent to care for himself.” Her mouth twists. “But, counsel for the defendant is right. We have failed him.” She nods, once. “I’ll give you your order, Mr. Rogers. But I suspect in one year, when his newly imposed time has run, we’ll be back here, having the same argument. I will just – hope, I suppose, that something changes before then.” 

A bittersweet moment, here. Sam can see what passes between the two of them; they have only ever interacted in a courtroom, like this, as judge and attorney, and she is twenty years older than him, and they are strangers. But they both see, in this moment, that they could have fallen in love with each other. Another world, another time. A different dance. 

Sam watches them both understand this, and watches the both of them, quietly, without fanfare, give up on the thought. Banish it away. 

\--

Now – you remember where we started, right? With a glint in Steve’s eye. A trespassing case. With Tony Stark mentioning something called the _DeKoska Center._

Now, what Tony and Steve and Sam all very well know is that the DeKoska Center, consisting of two boarded-up stately brick buildings, is _literally_ the archetype of the creepy historical insane asylum. Once upon a time, it was surrounded by ridges and forests. Now, it’s bordered by a highway, a big-box hardware store, and a Sheetz gas station. 

Does not take away any of the creep factor.

Now, the Center’s claim to fame is probably all of the videos of people breaking into it on Youtube. Sam’s seen four. 

\--

“Aw, hell no,” mutters Sam, again, after Steve has darted away to his office, maybe to grab a flashlight and some boots and rope or whatever people use in ‘urban exploring.’

A beat, and: “I can see that crap from my _window_. I don’t need a damn visit.” 

\--

Turns out, there are boots, two flashlights (one for Sam, how considerate), some rope, _and_ , apparently most important, a pricey digital camera with a fancy lens. 

Of course, didn’t this asshole go to art school or something? 

They crunch across the unmown grass towards the buildings, solid dark while everything else is in pools of floodlight. 

Sam curses. “Better not be some damn ticks in this grass,” he says. 

Why is he going along with this? He should have at least grabbed Natasha. Maybe, between the two of them, they could have tempered the reckless streak he’s starting to see in Steve Rogers. 

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” asks Steve. His voice is low, and it doesn’t carry. Nice trick. 

“Needs a booster shot,” Sam shoots back. “I’ll get that with my new tetanus shot, right after we get out of here.” 

Steve laughs. 

Thunder rolls in the distance.

“Oh my god, seriously?” says Sam. 

“Looks like there’s a broken window up there,” says Steve, pointing above the awning. The windows are solid boarded shut; they’d have to do some serious breaking to get in on the ground floor. 

“Kay, fine,” says Sam, “give me a boost.” 

“What?” 

“You boost me, I’ll grab onto the thing there, and I’ll get up on the awning. Easy.” 

“And what, you haul me up after?” Steve is skeptical.

“Get movin’, soldier,” barks Sam. 

Steve has halfway snapped to attention already, a little wide-eyed, a little bewildered. A little, unless Sam misses his mark, _turned on._

Sam takes advantage of the moment of pliability, letting Steve boost him. He grabs the remnants of a metal trellis, halfway rusted through, and swings over. Grips the gutter, and then he’s on. 

“Aha!” Sound of triumph, as he slips in through the window. 

“What about me?” calls Steve. 

Sam pokes his head out. “Man, this was _your_ idea,” he says. “Find your own way in.” 

It’s a dare, and Steve responds in kind. 

Or… maybe he does. Steve vanishes, and Sam is left holding a flashlight and listening to the rain start to fall. 

It’s not actually that bad inside. There’s a lot of graffiti – like, a _lot_ , people really need to calm down and let the ambiance take over, in Sam’s opinion – and there’s a fair amount of debris. The sort of stuff you get when you clear out of a building, and scavengers come to pick it over – chunks of half-disintegrated furniture, old piles of scrap and waste. 

He plays the flashlight over the wall, and follows the flow of idiotic spray-paint nonsense to a door. 

Outside, there are handprints all over the wall. Painted handprints. And it’s the sort of thing that would probably be cute right outside a kindergarten classroom, but right now it’s definitely messing with Sam. 

He hears a creak, turns. 

Oh, hell. He was here with a white guy and he left the white guy behind? 

“Come on, Sam,” he mutters to himself, “haven’t you ever seen a damn horror movie?” Speaks up: “Steve?” 

No answer. It’s gonna be rats, isn’t it? Rats, or evil ghosts. Satan? Zombies?

A rustle. 

“I regret this,” says Sam. “I regret every choice I have ever made—”

So. 

Turns out it’s not rats.

But it’s also not Steve. 

The bat – or whatever black-colored shrieking leather-winged monstrosity has made its den here – flies straight at Sam’s face, bringing a couple of its friends along for the ride. Sam freezes, thunder crashes, and then -- _wham_. 

The bats are on the floor, flopping, clawing themselves upright, then getting the _fuck_ out of that fucking room. Through the window. And there’s Steve, with the round metal lid of a garbage can, having just protected Sam’s precious, beautiful, wonderful, bat-free face from _getting attacked by bats._

“I could kiss you right now,” says Sam. 

“You could,” says Steve. His voice is lower than Sam’s heard, before, and the flashlight has him just in outlines, and – 

Sam breathes in, and turns away. He’s really trying to be good. (No he’s not; he just broke into a creepy insane asylum with a handsome insane lawyer.) 

“So how the hell’d you get in here?” His heartbeat is not returning to something he’d call _normal_ , but it has descended from stress level: screaming heart attack to stress level: black guy in a horror movie. 

“Brick crumbled away on the west side,” Steve says. “Found some handholds.” 

“Of course,” and Sam is muttering again, “you just scaled a goddamn brick wall, that’s right.” 

Steve shrugs. “I think there’s a tunnel between the two buildings,” he says. “Or they share a basement. Want to go look?” 

No hesitation: “Hell yes.” 

\--

The entrance to the basement is padlocked. 

But there’s some really interesting stuff around on the way there, and Sam is genuinely kinda intrigued, enough to stick around for a little while. Steve takes several pictures, each time trying to get the flash around when lightning strikes, and by the little quirks of his lips, Sam surmises he’s getting good stuff. 

So he’s down to stress level: actively committing Crime, which is another few steps down from stress level: black guy in a horror movie, and that’s when there’s a flicker of blue light and a half-WOOP of a police siren. 

Steve and Sam look at each other. 

Someone bangs on the window. “I know you’re in there! You damn kids!” 

Steve and Sam look at the padlock, on the trap door to the basement. 

In what’s clearly an inhuman feat of strength, Steve immediately smashes the rusty latch the padlock is holding shut – as the rusty latch looks about seven hundred years older than the padlock does – and heaves the door open. 

Sam drops down first. Steve follows, right after. 

Creepy white tile, old gurneys, this is probably fine, a dead hand made of slime is going to reach out of the drains and grab their ankles at any moment, but, yeah, no problem, totally fine –

The two of them move in sync, like they’ve practiced. 

(They have; they were both soldiers, weren’t they?) 

The buildings _are_ connected, and, even better, this thing leads to a storm cellar barred from the inside. Steve heaves the bar up, and Sam inches the door open, and while he’s getting blasted in the face by an unbelievable amount of rain, he sees that the cop is still over at Building One. 

“Come on, come on,” and he slips out, pulling Steve along. 

They run. 

At one point, there are some shouts behind them, but they lose the guy somewhere behind Home Depot. Amazing; both of them are in shape enough that they can run up the steep hills, dodge the trees, and get lost in the darkness. 

“My car’s back there,” Steve protests, after an uncomfortably close crack of thunder. They left it in the far end of the Home Depot parking lot, where clusters of For Sale cars tend to gather. 

“Don’t need it,” says Sam. “My place is right up there.” He points at the apartment buildings on top of the hill.

“Seriously?” Steve stops. “Why didn’t you say something?” 

Because he was still trying to hold off from kissing a colleague senseless and taking him home, that’s why. 

“Forgot?” yells Sam, unconvincingly, over a loud gust of wind and rain. 

Steve’s reply is lost, and Sam leads him up, avoiding the muddy, swift-flowing runs of water. They make it to the apartment building, and up to the second floor, and then the door is slamming shut on the weather and Sam and Steve are dripping on the imitation hardwood floor. 

Sam just breathes, for a second, eyes adjusting to the light from the lamps, looking at Steve with his clothes plastered on him and his hair plastered to his head and drops of water running down his body. 

In about .5 seconds flat, he has Steve back against the door, kissing him so deep, so warm. Steve’s lips part under Sam’s, and Sam honestly feels a little woozy. He’s getting swept off his feet, here. 

Steve smiles against Sam’s lips, and pulls him close. 

Wet jeans are tight in all the wrong places, but they kiss again and again, _again_ , slow and wet and filthy, until Sam is breathing rough and Steve’s grip has gone tight on the back of his neck.

“Hey,” manages Sam, “I have a really big shower.” 

They are going to have sex. Right now. 

\--

In the shower, it’s nothing serious. They fool around, they touch, they get warmed up from the cold. Sam gets to run his hands up Steve’s chest; Steve gets to drag Sam close by the hips, and stroke his spine until he’s practically purring, half-melted onto Steve. 

It’s such a weird and awkward thing, progressing from fully clothed and separate individuals to fully naked, singles-ready-to-mingle, and there are some of those moments, sure. Sam has to hop on one leg to peel his jeans off, and Steve laughs himself breathless. Steve hits his head on the showerhead, and, come on, he’s only like _one_ inch taller than Sam, that’s ridiculous. 

“Two,” murmurs Steve against Sam’s lips, and then he takes both his dick and Sam’s into his hand, and Sam forgets to argue back. 

\--

“You can just _take_ me, can’t you?” breathes Steve. 

“Yeah,” and Sam’s spine goes into a tight arch, as Steve’s fingers curl and stretch inside him. This was not what he had in mind! But he’s not complaining. 

“I watch you, you know.” Is this Steve’s version of dirty talk? “You can just take on anything, you’re so flexible, you’re always there, everything’s so sharp and you make it go soft.” 

If it’s Steve’s version of dirty talk, for some damn reason, it’s really working for Sam. 

Sam chokes on his own saliva as Steve withdraws, and makes a sort of bleat of complaint, collapsing boneless to the mattress. 

Head of Steve’s nice, broad cock presses against Sam’s hole, and Sam is the (un)readiest he’s ever been. 

“Come on, come on,” in practically a chant. Steve folds him in half, legs bent and splayed, and this time when he muffles something about flexibility into kisses against the inside of Sam’s thigh, Sam suspects he means the _physical_ kind of flexibility. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” as Steve breaches him, and Sam is starting to understand what the hell Steve was talking about: he _does_ take it, accepts Steve inside him, opens himself in uncomfortable degrees and bends and goes pliant in Steve’s hands. Steve’s emotions are wild as the rain, violent, but well-hidden, and he’s trusting Sam with absorbing it and calming it. 

Sam is manhandled, hips lifted, body repositioned, and his indignant “ _hey_ ” is met with a genial pat on the ass and a thrust that makes him go white-hot and liquid-electric. 

Steve plays with it, keeps adjusting, shifting Sam this way and that, dragging his cock inside Sam slow and slow and then thrusting so it knocks the breath out of him. Gets to the point where mostly all he can do is hang on, throw one leg over Steve’s arm and wrap the other around his back, and make his appreciation quite vocally known. 

Sam sees white, and the pleasure floods him, too much to handle – and it snaps, shivers right out of him. He grabs at Steve, trying to hold him still, but Steve does some damn thing with his hips that drags it out much, much longer. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, a few moments later. 

Steve is going soft inside him. He must have come because of Sam, because of Sam’s pleasure. 

“Hang on,” and Steve lets Sam unfold, strokes his cheek and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat, “I’ll get us cleaned up.” 

Sam makes a grunting noise, and reaches over the edge of the bed. A little flailing produces a damp towel, from the shower. He shoves it at Steve. 

A twitch as Steve mops up his belly. “Hey!” 

“You’re ticklish?” 

“Hell no, I’m not, clean yourself up,” with Sam scrambling to get an extra foot of distance. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

And here he is, pinned by the solid form of Steve Rogers, the guy who bleeds red, white, and blue, the guy who talked about the meaning of justice and love in a probation revocation and meant it. 

“Nowhere,” confesses Sam. “ _Definitely_ nowhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> Idea for the asylum based off of the DeJarnette Center outside Staunton, Virginia. Anyone breaking in would probably be prosecuted with breaking & entering, not trespass, but I wanted to keep it light. And keep it clear that Steve just wants to climb into an abandoned building. His main concern is not being a responsible defense attorney.


End file.
